Podesta shrugged and rubbed at the wine stains on the map.
“I hid below for days, long after the screaming had stopped. Don’t tell the crew, but I pissed myself. Shit myself even, and just lay there in my own mess. When the coastal patrol found me they put a sack over my head so I couldn’t see the remains of my crewmates on deck. The mawgs hadn’t even taken the ship. Just ate everyone on board and took off again. Like sharks, they are: eating and disgorging so they can kill and eat some more. Evil shoggers, eh?”
Shader set down his glass. His head was swimming, the room starting to shift around him. “You still think we’re taking the best route? Diaz’s might’ve been longer, but it was a sight safer.”
“Trust me, my friend. I know the Anglesh Isles like the back of my hand, and even if we did see a reaver, the Aura Placida isn’t an old wreck like the Crucible. She can outrun any mawg ship, and besides, if they catch us, our crew is mostly Quilonian.” He slapped Elpidio on the back so hard that the boy almost threw up. “None tougher, eh, my boy?”
“Well, gentlemen, I’m about ready for bed.” Shader pushed his way out of the chair and fell face down on the table, the map creasing up beneath him and his wine glass shattering on the floor. He groaned and felt bile rising in his throat, swallowed it back down and tried to stand. He lurched and spread his arms to steady himself. “Have we put back out to sea?”
“I fear it is the strength of Quilonia.” Podesta scrutinized the label on the wine. “Why do you suppose it is, my friend, that you Nousians forego so many of the pleasures of the world, yet make alcohol your bedfellow?”
Shader swooned and would have fallen if Elpidio hadn’t caught him.
“I never drink.” Not strictly true, but near enough for it not to warrant confession.
“Ah, a virgin of the vine. Then I am impressed. We’ll make a sailor of you yet, eh? Elpidio, would you show our guest to his cabin, there’s a good lad.”
The deck was a pitching blur, Shader’s feet disconnected and tripping over each other. He anchored himself on Elpidio’s shoulder, fighting down the urge to vomit. A door bashed against his head as Elpidio bundled him through an opening, sounds of clashing and banging following in their wake. The lad went in front as they stumbled down below to the cool dark and bounced from wall to wall of the corridor until they reached Shader’s cabin door.
“You shouldn’t leave it open,” Elpidio said as he shouldered his way through, half carrying Shader. “Some of the lads ain’t too honest.”
Shader didn’t care right at that moment. He didn’t even mind the clothes and books strewn around the base of the bed, the scabbarded Sword of the Archon poking out from under them. He shook off Elpidio’s grip and took a lunging step towards the bed. There was a rush of sound, the smell of old sweat, and then a hand clamped over his mouth, another holding a blade to his throat.
“Cleto!” Elpidio screeched.
“Shit on you, boy. What you have to come in for?” A hard voice, more growled than spoken, spit spraying into the back of Shader’s neck.
“Captain’ll kill you. Stealing ain’t allowed.”
“Captain ain’t gonna know till it’s too late. Chuck me that sword, boy, and be quick about it.”
Elpidio edged into the room, eyes never leaving Shader’s.
“It’s all right, Elpidio,” Shader tried to say, but it came out as a series of grunts.
“Who the shog asked you?”
Cleto wrenched Shader’s head back, nicked his throat with the blade. There was no pain—just a tickle as blood oozed down his skin.
“Way I see it,” Cleto said, breath hot and rancid on Shader’s face, “I got myself a bit of a quandary. See, I meant to be gone before you’d done with your private party. Now I got to ask myself whether to chance leaving you alive while I head for shore, or whether it’s easier to kill the pair of you.”
Elpidio picked up the sword by the scabbard and held it out to Cleto.
“Here, boy. Closer.” Cleto let go of Shader’s mouth and reached for the hilt. “Don’t you move or I’ll slit you like a pig.”
Shader’s heart was pounding, his muddle-headedness starting to lift. He tried to think of anything but the blade slicing across his throat; tried to let his body go limp. Was this how it was to end? His journey from Elect knight to a monk of Pardes cut short by too much drink and a cowardly piece of scum he could have cut down without thinking face to face.
The hilt of the gladius was a blur between his eyes as Cleto’s fingers curled around it.
“Shit!” Cleto’s hand recoiled as if burned. “Shogging thing’s alive!”
Shader crashed his elbow into Cleto’s ribs, twisted under him, and threw him down hard, keeping a grip on the knife arm. Cleto let out a rush of air and tried to rise, but Shader straightened his elbow and folded back the hand so that he dropped the knife and screamed.
“My arm! You’re breaking my shogging arm!”
Captain Podesta appeared in the doorway, cutlass drawn and looking like he’d never touched a drop of wine.
“You really need to work on your vocabulary, Cleto.”
“Captain! I can explain.”
Podesta sheathed his cutlass and crouched down beside him. Cleto tried to get up but squealed as Shader gave his wrist a sharp tweak. Sweat streaked his pock-marked face and glistened from the sharp stubble covering his chin.
“You are new, Cleto, so I will not feed you to the sharks this time. It is, however, advisable for a crewman to learn something of his captain before he boards a ship. I am known for my gusto, my wit, and my good humor, am I not, Elpidio?”
“Sir.”
“But Captain Amidio Podesta is not a man to be crossed. My crew may be as hard as nails, they may laugh and joke and call me a drunken old sot, but none of them that know me would break the rules of this ship. Am I clear?”
“Clear,” Cleto whimpered.
“Good. Fetch me some rope, boy.”
“Rope?” Cleto’s voice had a tremulous quality now.
“Oh, we’ll forego the hanging this time, but you will need to be kept in the brig until we can organize a flogging. I find that men rarely learn lessons without a good dose of pain. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Shader?”
All Shader could think about was running Cleto through with the sword. Hardly the Nousian way, but nevertheless… “Sounds fair.”
Cleto twisted his neck so that he could glare at Shader with murderous eyes. He had a face lined with permanent scowling, a broken nose, and teeth the color of vomit. His bald head was scarred and cratered, crusted with scabs amidst a downy dusting of hair. As Shader studied the face, keen not to forget it, Cleto forced a smile that was more of a leer.
Some men don’t learn, even with pain, Shader thought. But it was Podesta’s ship, and what he said went. Obedience aboard the Aura Placida didn’t seem quite as negotiable as that in Pardes.
THE ANCHORITE
The sun stood high above the sweltering streets of Sarum, turning the council chambers of Arnbrook House into an oven. The windows were thrown wide, but that just made things worse, the hazy air from outside rolling in and daubing its humidity on the oak paneling. The thick-weave Ashantan carpets were moist where they met the skirting, and heavy with the odor of rotting fruit and a something stale, unwashed, like overworked flesh in a brothel.
Lallia tore along corridors and down stairs, white blouse ringed with sweat beneath the arms and clinging to her curves in a way that made one councilor whip off his spectacles and pretend he had something in his eye, and another gawp at her and shake his head in mock disapproval. She pelted across the polished floor of the Great Hall, slipped on a wet patch, and bowled over some robed toff, scattering his papers. Too breathless to say sorry, and in too much of a rush to stop and help, she took the stairs down to the ground floor two at a time and darted through the kitchens, ducking as Borlos the head chef swiped at her with a pan. Her breath came in great heaves, heart pounding with the effort, but she was
determined to impress Zara Gen.
Lallia had never seen the governor so excited. Zara Gen was usually a man in complete control of his feelings, always stony-faced, always watching with the patience of a crocodile floating close to the bank, waiting for the roos to drink. In part, it was fear of him that sped her on. Although he had never so much as raised his voice to her, there was something in his bearing that did not suffer tardiness; but she was also stoked by the uncharacteristic and infectious excitement that had animated him. The visitor in reception was either extremely important or a lover, something about which Lallia knew a great deal. She couldn’t quite picture Zara Gen with a woman, or a man for that matter; that would have been way too human. And yet it wasn’t as if he was unattractive. Bit sharp of face perhaps; a bit starchy the way he carried himself: like a lord or even a king, but with a pole shoved up his arse. His sleek black hair, tied in a neat ponytail, drew the scorn of the staff, although Lallia quite liked it. Dressed in his scarlet robes of office, he looked every inch the statesman. Until this morning, Lallia had never imagined there was anything else to him.
As she came hurtling into the reception area she bent double to catch her breath, hair falling in thick chestnut tousles about her face.
“Don’t run!” Martha was slouched at the desk, a haughty look of disdain crossing her bloated face.
“Sorry.” Lallia struggled to get some air in her lungs. “Zara Gen has a…”
“I know, girl. It’s my job. You just need to take the gentleman to Governor Gen’s office, if it’s not too much to ask.”
Lallia gulped down air and straightened up. She ran her fingers through her damp hair, flicked it from her eyes. She was going to ask Martha if she had something to tie it back with, but then thought better of it.
The only other person in the reception was a filthy old swaggie with an off-white beard, a grimy brown habit, and scuffed leather sandals.
“Where…?”
“Are you blind, girl?” Martha shook her head, sighing as she raised a flabby arm. “There!”
Lallia adjusted her skirt and approached the old man, whose eyes were hidden beneath heavy lids. He seemed asleep or lost in some secret reverie. Lallia cleared her throat and one rheumy eye flickered open, quickly followed by the other as his face lit up in mock surprise.
“Well, well, well. Still rushing around, Lallia? Never stopping to hear the birds sing or watch the sun rise.”
Heat flooded Lallia’s cheeks. How did he know her name? “I’m sorry?”
“No need to be.” The old man smiled with such warmth that Lallia felt tears welling in her eyes. “There is very little you need to be sorry for, my dear. Well, maybe one or two matters,” he added as an afterthought. “Come now, lead the way. I believe Zara Gen is anxious to meet me, though goodness knows why. I must be the most sought after Nousian in Sahul. Not anything to boast about, mind you.”
That’s because there weren’t many Nousians in Sahul, which was a bloody good job as far as Lallia was concerned. The emperor might be as mad as a pot-smoking Dreamer, but he was right about the Nousians. It was thanks to Hagalle that Sahul was still free of Templum rule; that and the fact it was on the other side of the world from Aeterna. Lallia didn’t know any Nousians herself, and she’d prefer to keep it that way. She’d heard all about their unnatural practices. It didn’t seem human, all that self-denial and waiting for a better life once this one was over. Flipping stupid idea, if you asked her. When you’re dead you’re dead. Nothing plainer than that, so you might as well make the most of it. That’s how she saw it in any case.
The old man stood with creaky knees, and Lallia led him along the corridors and up the stairwells, heading for the fifth floor. She decided it was best not to speak in case he tried to convert her. He’d get a mouthful if he did, that’s for sure. No poncy priest was going to tell her what she could and couldn’t do. After two floors, though, the silence became unbearable.
“Where’d you say you come from?”
“I didn’t, my dear, but now that you ask, Gladelvi,” he replied.
“Gladelvi! You came by boat, right?”
“And risk the Anglesh mawgs? Oh, no, no, no. I walked.”
“You what?” Walked? At his age? That must have taken weeks. “When’d you leave?”
He shrugged and tucked his hands inside the sleeves of his habit. “Just after breakfast. 9:30, or thereabouts.”
Lallia pulled a face and decided to say no more. The old codger was obviously senile or lying. More than two thousand miles in half an hour! Brains must have been addled by his poxy religion. Maybe the silence wasn’t so bad after all.
Each time she reached the top of a flight of stairs, she waited impatiently as the old man lumbered up behind. Councilor Arkin was due his tipple and it didn’t do to keep him waiting. Gritting her teeth and doing her best not to roll her eyes, she turned on her heel as they reached the fifth floor landing and walked down the corridor, past the gilt-framed paintings of former governors, all robed in red and looking to her like a clutch of devils.
Lallia stopped outside the polished oak door of Zara Gen’s office and knocked. Hopefully the governor had summoned the old fool to tell him to sling his hook along with the rest of his miserable sect. About time, too, what with the Templum having a foothold in the city now, not to mention those shifty bastards out at Pardes.
Zara Gen, robed as usual in crimson velvet, pulled the door wide open, looked adoringly at his visitor, and then threw himself prostrate on the ground at the old man’s feet.
Lallia shuffled from foot to foot, wondering where to put herself, when she realized the governor was sobbing. The old man looked embarrassed as he bent over from the waist and tapped Zara Gen on the shoulder. The governor stood shakily, brushed himself down, then held the door for his visitor. He dabbed at his eyes with a sleeve, gave Lallia a curt nod, and then disappeared inside.
As Lallia headed back down the corridor she heard muttering—the same words repeated over and over: numbers. Someone was counting. Shaking her head, she set off towards the stairs and walked straight into the huge bulk of Dr. Cadman, the governor’s public health advisor. Seemed he was around every corner these days, since that business with the water supply. Sarum had stunk for weeks until Cadman had come up with some fancy solution, and Zara Gen had made his position permanent. Even had his own office in Arnbrook House now, although besides chain-smoking and stuffing his face, Lallia had no idea what he actually did.
“Ah, my dear Lallia.” Cadman beamed at her. “Is Governor Gen busy?” He plucked a silver case from his breast pocket and flipped a cigarette into his mouth.
Lallia took a step back from the fat man standing amiably before her, thumbs tucked into the pockets of his waistcoat. She glanced up at his puffy mustached face. Enquiring, beady eyes peered over wire-framed spectacles. “He’s got a visitor.”
She’d never liked the way Cadman looked at her: it was as if he were forcing himself to maintain eye-contact, but was extremely uncomfortable doing so. There was something sleazy about a man who did that, Lallia reckoned. The old sod was most likely ashamed of what he was thinking; probably imagining what he’d like to do to her. The thought made her sick: all that flab pressing down on her, his slobbering tongue trailing over her neck like a slug, the thick mustache scratching her face and reeking of stale tobacco.
“Ah, of course! Foolish me. Jarmin the Anchorite of Gladelvi.” Cadman pressed his thumb to a metallic device and flame sprang up. He touched it to the end of the cigarette and gave three short puffs. “How could I forget? Oh well, best pop back later.” He tapped the rim of his spectacles. Once, twice, three times.
Lallia watched with revulsion as he waddled away, wondering how anyone could get to be so fat. Say one thing for Cadman, though: at least he wasn’t a Nousian. That would be just a bit too much hypocrisy, even for them.
“Shog! Councilor Arkin.” Realization hit her like a slap in the face. There would be hell to pay. Taking a deep
breath, she lurched into a run, cursing the heat and wondering when the day would be over. All she could think of was a cool beer down at the Mermaid, a stroll by the docks, and someone to share her bed for the night.
THE STATUE OF EINGANA
Cadman waited until Lallia disappeared down the stairs—all thirteen of them—before stepping back into the corridor. He was hunched over, hands wedged beneath his arm-pits, trying to keep out the cold. He knew it couldn’t really be cold—he could see that from the glare of sunlight through the windows, the damp patches on Lallia’s blouse. He’d once hoped Sahul’s climate would give him some respite from his frozen bones, but it had been a vain hope, like so much else. He’d been in the country for so long now he suspected he’d picked up the accent, which would do nothing for his reputation if he ever returned to civilization. He shuddered, not from the cold, but from the memories lodged beneath the surface of his mind, sharp and dangerous, like a wasp caught in a cobweb. Eight hundred and thirty years since his flight from his former master, Otto Blightey, had finally brought him to Sahul, which as far away as it was humanly possible to get.
Eight hundred and thirty. Cadman rolled the numbers around in his mind, permuting them this way and that: 8-3-0, 0-3-8, 3-8-0; adding them, subtracting them; all part of the ritual. 8 plus 3 made 11, which was one more than 10 and 1 less than 12. Nothing bad there. 8 minus 3, though, that was another matter. That made 5, and 5 was never good. Cadman clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and set his cheeks to wobbling. Of course, he’d survived fives before. When you’d lived as long as he had, fives came up all the time; but they never got any easier. Cadman had a sense of foreboding about this one, as he’d had on every other occasion. Year of the Reckoning 908 was going to be a bad one. You could bet your life on it.
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